


Trompe L'oiel

by Laihiriel, supermagpie



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 20:37:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2481599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laihiriel/pseuds/Laihiriel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/supermagpie/pseuds/supermagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sif knows. Loki has no idea how she knows, but she knows....<br/>(Contains mild violence and awkward hugs)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trompe L'oiel

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place VERY pre-Thor. Sorry not-sorry. - The Authours

     All in all, Loki is rather proud of himself. He’d been practicing with shadow-clones for the past year in secret, employing them in small bursts at first to see if he could trick the servants. Once he was suitably sure that he could fool the servants for a few moments, he began lengthening the amount of time he deployed his copy. It was very difficult at first, for the magic was complex and draining. Oftentimes he had been interrupted during his efforts, usually by Thor and, bizarrely, by Sif, rendering the day’s experiment useless. But despite his setbacks, and the accidental mental breakdowns he gave some of the palace staff, Loki had persevered. In time, he found he was able to hold his clone for an hour, then two, then half a day.

     Today he has managed the half-day mark. He’d sent out the shadow to his morning lessons, spying through his copy’s eyes just to see how safe it was. If he got caught… well, he had firmly decided when crafting up this scheme that he wouldn’t get caught. The lesson was boring. It was about a period of Asgard’s glorious history he’d already read and studied. Like most of their daily lessons, Thor would be bored stiff until anything having to do with war was mentioned. Sif would attempt to pay attention, and would take good notes until mid-morning when her interest would finally wane. Hogun would be silent and studious, and Fandral seemed to want to spend most of his time doodling obscene figures in his notebook. There had been nothing Loki would miss, and the clone had enough autonomy to act as its creator would act during lessons.

     Their loremaster had not noticed any new change in the second prince, and he had ensured that the clone neatly dodged any attempt of Thor’s for physical contact. As this was not unusual for Loki, his brother had not noticed any difference. Sif had been the person he had genuinely been concerned about fooling. She _looks_ at him sometimes, especially when she thinks he can’t see, and it’s been doing strange things to his insides. He’s not sure how he feels about it, but he knows that Sif is more observant than most of the bunch. Sif, at least, will be the one to call him out and get him in trouble. Loki has a sneaking suspicion that Hogun knows a lot more than he ever lets on, but as the Van keeps his own council on matters and never really says anything about Loki’s mischief, the prince considers him an acceptable risk.

     The magic is draining, and from time to time he has to pop his consciousness away from the book on seidr-laced plant life of Asgard to make sure that his control over the illusion has not faltered. It’s such _freedom_ to not have to go to class and not to get in trouble for it! Loki laughs in delight, three floors down and half a wing away as he realizes he shall get away with his deception. If he can make _one_ … perhaps he can make _many_ … The possibilities are dizzying.

     The lesson comes to a close and the Loki that is not truly Loki rises from his seat.

     Sif watches, chin upon her fist, intent as he gathers up his books and papers. She knows that something is not quite right, has known since Loki settled at his desk that there was an ‘off’ shade to the younger prince’s demeanor, but she knows not how to point to a specific trait or action and say ‘this is wrong’. To all surface appearances Loki is perfectly fine. Sif’s knowledge that he is not is a gut feeling, informed only by sensation and familiarity. She chooses quite deliberately not to examine the hours she has spent cultivating such a familiarity with Loki’s mannerisms and appearances. Instead she rises from her seat as the classroom clears, steps along the row past Loki’s desk, and plucks their newest textbook - the one that Loki did not pack away - from the surface.

     A Loki truly present at a lesson would never leave behind a new book and thanks now to Sif’s quick fingers said book will not remain as a beacon that he has been away. She tucks it next to her own copy in her bookbag, adjusting the bag strap upon her shoulder as she moves with her classmates to the hall. Loki-not-Loki is already drifting off up the hallway, putting swift distance between himself and the rest as is often typical after a lesson. Sif waves off the summons of Thor and Fandral with an excuse of time promised to her mother and follows at a distance.

     Two corridors down from the classroom, unaware of Sif’s observance, the spectre of the darker brother shows its nature, dissipating upon contact with the shadows cast by the walls. Vindicated in her curiosity Sif allows herself a smirk, turning the new puzzle that this presents over in her mind. Where, if he has not been at their lesson, is Loki now?

     It is not a difficult question, in the end, least of all for Sif who has a knack for finding its answer. Loki has the strange tendency of dodging lessons only to pursue education by other means - either a different topic or even merely an altered method - and there are only a few of his private places suited to the task. It does not take her even half an hour to find the chambers he has squirrelled himself away in and to Sif’s delight he seems so absorbed in his book as to be unaware of her presence as well. Perhaps his spellwork has drained him for he seems to slump over in his seat a little, to be less alert. She does not knock, treads oh-so-lightly, allowing instead for him to continue working undisturbed until she is standing directly behind his chair.

     “Most would assume that you are simply too _lazy_ to attend your lessons, but I wonder whether you have expended greater energy on your tactics of avoidance,” Sif says just as he turns a page, delighting in Loki’s bristle of surprise.

     Loki does not yelp, nor does he jump at the intrusion. It is a very near thing, though. He had not heard her approach, feeling more drained than he had anticipated. "I have no idea of what you speak," he lies haughtily, hiding his indignance at the fact that she’d likely seen him startle. “I was _in_ lessons, or have you forgotten the last few boring hours already?”

     She _knew_. Loki has no idea _how_ she knew, but she _knew_.

     "Were you?" Sif asks mildly, rounding his chair and finding a place upon the corner of his desk to perch. She crosses one leg over the other, pulls her bag into her lap, and reaches into the pocket, producing the crisper looking copy of the two texts. "How unlike you to leave behind newly given materials. Lucky that I was there to claim your copy for you."

     He had been so _close_ to completely getting away with it! Loki masks a frown and watches her perch upon his desk. Her leg is very long, like the horse he teases her to be, but he cannot quite seem to draw his eye away. Stupid Sif.

     "I am sure I would have noticed soon and gone to fetch it. Even I can be careless upon rare occasion," Loki offers mildly. He stubbornly refuses to give in. If he can somehow carry through this conversation under the pretext that he is innocent he will count this as a tremendous victory.

     Sif tosses her golden hair off to one side and Loki (refusing to Notice the way the dusty light catches and glints off it like ingots), recognizes that this is a battle he probably won't win. "Though you have my thanks for saving me a trip," the second prince concedes. So his illusion cannot manipulate any matter he himself had not spelled upon his person. This is good to know.

     "It was quite good apart from being unable to bring your book along. You have fooled the teacher, our classmates, and your brother all," Sif comments, with her usual confident smile. That Loki defends himself by stating the obvious actions of what he has crafted instead of speaking as if Sif is foolish or impaired to believe otherwise gives away his investment in the illusion more than the deception. Sif cannot blame him for taking pride in it, however, for it had seemed especially real even to her eyes.

     "Does it take coherent notes for you or merely scribble upon the page to seem busy?" she asks, leaning back upon one hand to make herself comfortable on the desk, her bookbag set aside on the floor with a gentle thump. It never takes her overlong to make herself at home in Loki's space.

     Loki decides then to abandon the pretense. Sif, at least, seems willing to give him information about his construct rather than simply chiding him for shirking, and she is asking questions rather than laughing at his cowardly tactics. She’s certainly made herself comfortable upon his desk, carefully nudging his papers and books out of the way.

     He’s not sure why she’s here, not really, or why she keeps managing to hunt him down when he’s working, but he cannot quite bring himself to complain sincerely for the disruptions. Deep down he knows that if he really didn’t want Sif barging in on his time, she wouldn’t. He’s very good at avoiding things he doesn’t want to do.

     Loki draws his hand up and sets his book down, studying his companion with more intent. A bit of concentration (for his double really had taken up a lot of energy), and the shadow of his classroom notes appeared, effectively documenting their lesson. That particular aspect of the spell had taken him _months_ to nail down, and he was rather proud of himself for it. He had to be able to know what his copies did if he wanted to use them effectively.

     “It took proper notes. Should anyone with half a brain be paying attention, they would have noticed that meaningless scribble does not look the same as someone meticulously writing and called the illusion out.” And Loki is known for his fastidiousness. He’s not quite sure how that backhanded compliment came out of his mouth, but there it is.

     “When could you tell it was false?” he asks her curiously. And why Sif and not Thor? Or his teacher? Or Hogun? Somehow he suspects the reason it had been Sif is the same reason she keeps wedging herself in his personal space, but _that_ he cannot bear thinking about, so he doesn't.

     “Perhaps during the break in lessons? I did not see it right away. Your hello was quite normal but something in your stature once at your desk was odd to my eye.”

     Sif pulls a few strands of hair over her shoulder, beginning an idle braid and focusing upon it to avoid any questioning gaze Loki may cast her way. What _was_ it that had made her notice, after all? Still she is not sure, even less certain on how to explain it. That she had been watching him with more intent than their teacher or his family is already more revelation about her focus on Loki than she cares to fully admit to....

     “I watched you more than I would usually for trying to pin what was different but I could not place my finger upon the source of it in the end. I sit too far to properly study why I felt such a thing during lessons. I imagine had I a closer look at your construct I could have pinned the strangeness of it properly.”

     Loki frowns, wondering why in the name of the realms Sif begins to fiddle with her hair like a shy maiden. Sif is many, _many_ things, but in Loki’s experience shy is not one of them. Sif is refreshingly, maddeningly direct, driven and sharp like a spear thrown true. It’s… well, having her sit and twist her hair like that annoys him, even as he cannot look away.

     “I suppose even if you are abysmal at casting, you come from beings drenched in seidr. Perhaps you just have a sense about that sort of thing,” he murmurs, more to himself than her. It’s a plausible explanation, but Sif notices his magic inconsistently, if she notices at all. A puzzle. Still, Sif has a remarkable sense of people, has a keen skill in watching to find someone’s weak spot.

     “All right. I shall summon it again, and you shall tell me where I have made some miscalculation.” It won't be quite as easy as it was this morning, but the simulacrum will not be doing much beyond standing there this time. He does not want the Horse to see how tired this will make him, does not need another weakness displayed before those who will only take advantage of it. Loki sucks in a deep breath and casts the illusion again.

     His double slowly forms from green and gold light and shadow. Its eyes blink open slowly and it smiles at Loki. Loki smiles back, pleased that he’s done it again, at how solid his double looks. “Here we are.”

     Sif lifts her head at the mention of the illusion’s return, sliding slowly from the desk as it takes shape before them both. Up close and still it is even more startlingly true to form than she had realized from her seat. The clothing wrinkles properly, casting back the light from the windows just the way her own does. The posture even in standing still is just as Loki’s own, weight canted oh so slightly to the back left. Sif steps closer, a prickling sensation stealing over her as she invades the illusion’s personal space in a way she rarely does to any. Perching upon his desk is one thing, being within the reach of his arm quite another, but his image has no reflex to withdraw from her, standing calm and unmoving beneath her scrutiny. So Sif takes a half-step closer to it again...

     Dark hair is slightly tangled at one side of the head as Loki’s is after leaning upon his fist in class, the neck the same fine arc, brow, cheekbones and chin knitting together at all the proper angles even as she examines them from almost close enough to breathe upon them. Quite literally every hair that she can find is in place and Sif cannot help an impressed huff of breath as she leans back again to skim the other Loki head to foot with her gaze.

     “...Well it is not a flaw in the general presentation, I think I can say that much.”

     Loki had not thought showing off would cause his heart to pound, but when Sif begins to inspect his work he feels rather like he is waiting to be sentenced. He has put so _much_ into this magic, has labored for ages and ages. Sif leans in closer to his doppelganger, closer than she ever does with his actual person. She is almost nose to nose with the clone, her breath upon its cheeks. It blinks at her, but does not pull away. Loki didn’t summon it with the autonomy he gave it earlier in class: that drains him too much.

     But watching her study it, putting herself to the perfect mirror of his face… it leaves Loki feeling uncomfortably warm, flushed with something powerful and heady. She is close enough to kiss the shadow-clone. A wild, errant thought enters his mind: what if she _did_? What if he manipulated the illusion to lean that scant inch forward to kiss _her_ instead? Oh, it would pass right through, he knows, but what would Sif think? She steps back and places that unbearably focused scrutiny on the real Loki, and the thought of revealing a desire such as that to her is utterly impossible.

     “I… I am glad that it passes a basic muster,” he replies a touch shakily, feeling horribly off-balance by her attentions. Beside her, the shadow clone blinks and smiles again, as if possessed by some inner amusement. An impossibility, Loki knows, but that doesn’t change the fact that it is smirking the way he does when he finds something entertaining about the people around him.

     “So? What tipped you off, then, if not the general presentation?”

     She glances long in between the two, studying the true Loki and the false in turns. There _is_ a difference, one that feels quite plain to her heart and gut but like naught to her physical senses. After a long moment or two in parallel study she can narrow it, she thinks, to the eyes…. Sif allows herself then to look into them instead of at them, to lean close and examine them as the illusion smiles at her with oblivious amusement, open to the vague intimacy of prolonged eye contact in a way Loki has been only once or twice. Some spark behind his cool gaze is missing.

     “Something about the way they focus does not ‘feel’ correct, if that makes sense?” she says hesitantly, still searching into the illusion’s gaze. “It is as though eye contact is... incomplete in some odd way.”

     Watching Sif have such prolonged eye contact with what is essentially himself is just as unnerving as her proximity. It gives him a rush of _feelings_ , dangerous ones at that, ones he does not fully understand nor process. Loki is not overfond of feelings; they tend to make him behave in rather foolish ways.

     “Hmm,” he says noncommittally. “All right. Permit me to try something?” His eyes flutter close as he pushes his consciousness into the copy. It is a rush to see Sif so very close all of a sudden, to notice for the first time how clear her eyes are… It is very well this form is intangible and cannot blush, for he feels as though heat is coursing through him.

     “And now?” he asks with the copy’s lips.

     Sif’s gaze darts down to that now moving mouth, the briefest curiosity tingling then fading again at the back of her mind, before she meets the copy’s eyes again.

     “That looks right, now,” she says with certainty, for the presence of Loki’s consciousness within the copy makes a miniscule but notable difference…

     “Well, it is not much use to me if I must be _with_ it to truly fool those around me…” Loki muses, watching her eyes dart down and look back up into his. It’s… unsettling to be so close to Sif, to be closer than he ever has without the din of battle or sparring surrounding them. But he cannot feel her heat, and is only dimly aware of her scent from his real body. This strange spark between them is powerful, electrifying, and he cannot look away until it is too much to bear. Sliding back into his own body feels like running away, but to continue looking into her face, more open than he has ever seen it before is impossible. His heart thumps painfully in his chest. He needs to deflect, to raise her ire so they may fall back into normalcy.

     “I wonder, Sif, when you had an opportunity during lecture to peer into my eyes thusly…” he says with his usual slyness. It’s easier to tease than it is to think about the alien feelings she arouses in him.

     The accusation paints a hot flush across Sif's cheekbones, fury at being picked upon (too accurately for her comfort) lighting up her eyes. Her reflexive response to any implication that she is preoccupied with such things takes over in an instant. Her fist comes together even as her arm moves, back and forward again in a two step, two second blur.

     The blow goes right through the body and though Sif does not quite stagger she does tip forward enough to sink into the illusion up to her bicep. She bristles at the strange prickle of the magic on her skin, her blush only worsened by the embarrassment of having forgotten that she cannot touch the trick. Loki is looking back at her with the unfettered calm of before but for a moment Sif can feel his magic pulsing in time with the fast pound of her heart.

     She jerks her hand back from the construct's centre with a furious huff, rubbing at her still-tingling wrist.

     “Well _that_ wasn’t very nice,” the real Loki grumps at her from his chair as her fist sails through the other’s chest. It was odd and made him strangely excited to be the observer as she unleashed her violence. “... But now I know that it shall hold even if something real goes through it, at least. You’re too easy sometimes, Sif.” It never takes much to get her to react to him, and Loki jealously holds that as his own. He might not belong in Thor’s merry little band, but none of them can spark Sif into a rage as quickly as Loki can. That counts for something in his mind.

     “So it is the eyes, then? It’s not the breathing or the way the light plays off its clothes or anything?” he asks, feeling the need to steer this conversation back to something safer. Sif has a keen eye for detail and as she sees fit to deposit herself in his company he shall take advantage of it.

     “The light upon the clothing is perfectly fine,” Sif tells him, her tone still sour for his amusement, turning fully to face his true self. “You could simply have _asked_ me to touch it. Pest. I ought to hit you properly.”

     She doesn’t, however, at least not yet, settling upon the edge of the desk again and squeezing her still tingling hand in her lap.

     “You never lack for things to hit, Sif, especially when they are me. I thought you’d appreciate another opportunity,” he replies wryly, slumping in his chair a bit as the magic drains him more and more. “And really, you’re bound to hit me at some point for untrue injustice you accuse me of, so if it’s all the same to you, at least hit me when I’ve really earned it. The construct?”

     “I met your eyes when you greeted me at break and they felt off then. That is where I saw the difference first, and if it is noticeable to me in that short span it shall be to someone else as well, I’m sure.” She shrugs, lofty and deliberately steeled to any effect brought by his taunting. “I cannot be more specific. Regretfully all-seeingness is not a familial trait. Perhaps it is only that I am so intent upon watching all across from my person for the slightest flinch that I noticed it above Thor or the others.”

     “The brave Lady Sif,” he drawls, knowing she hates being called lady. “So quick to look for an enemy to defeat.” Granted, she’s not entirely without reason; Loki has a tendency to pester her the most of his brother’s friends. “So you looked into my eyes deeply because you are a maid besotted and noticed that I wasn’t me—"

     "If that is what you believe I spent my class hours doing then your construct has recorded your wishful thinking rather than reality." Sif cuts in with a reproachful snap in her tone. Looking at him sinking tiredly into his seat, however, does not give her much motivation to punch his teeth in...

     Loki merely smirks and tips his head at her in recognition for her verbal hit. It’s fun when someone else manages to get those in every so often. "And then you just looked to confirm it, but no one else could tell.” He nods and watches her clench and un-clench her hand. It’s possible she’s planning on hitting him, but Sif wouldn’t give such an obvious tell for that. He’d just find himself with a bloody nose or a blackened eye.

     “... What did it feel like?” he asks her softly, curiosity burning bright in his eyes.

     Sif looks down upon her hand then, considering how to describe it as her fingers squeeze and release.

     "Strange but not unpleasant," she finally says, with a slightly knit brow. "There is still a tingling sort of sensation, as though my arm is asleep but with no dulling of my sense of touch to match. When my arm was within it..." she looks back at him, studying his slightly slumped posture and the tilt of his head. "It must drain you to the dregs maintaining such a thing for long, Loki. The density of the magic was quite palpable."

     Loki hides the fact that her words have made him puff up with pride under a mask of calm detachment; she _understands_ , she recognizes that this level of spellwork is not easy and is not some mere trick. Sif sounds _impressed_. Loki finds that he wants to impress her again and again, for Sif has ever held his magic in slight disdain. Ever since he managed to show off his first fairy-light spell for her and she just sniffed as though anyone could do it, Loki has had a deep desire to prove the worth of his magic. He waves his hand negligently, fighting the urge to beam.

     “This? Oh it’s nothing,” he says with arrogant false modesty. “When you cannot tell the difference between me and it I shall be more satisfied, I think.” His construct, however, does not apparently see the need to hide such a burst of pleasure. Loki thinks he shall have to program it a bit better next time. It grins widely at the shieldmaiden, open and utterly pleased.

     Sif glances between dismissive Loki and the double that is beaming with a sly smirk growing upon her face. It grins as if contrasting Loki’s disaffected tone deliberately and Sif has the delightful sense that it is smiling FOR him at her compliment. She raises a brow to the real Loki, a slightly wicked pleasure at the knowledge of his regard for her words warming her chest.

     “Don’t scoff so, there is nothing small in doubling an upright being for hours at a time you know. And making it take your notes no less!” Sif enjoys needling Loki at times, but she is a poor liar and cannot hide how the illusion does impress her. The more she considers on it’s details the more amazing it becomes. She knows not much of spellwork but has the basic terminology of its workings from too much time with her ears turned to Loki’s mutterings.

     “How many lesser strings are _in_ it even? Hundreds I’m sure. All the finger movements, more for the timing it would take to make it write, all the pieces there must be to its expressions. How long have you been building it?”

     “I’ve been practicing with it for about a year,” he admits, and the doppleganger beams more widely. “This was the first time I tested it for so long on people I know personally. Servants don’t count, and for the most part I’ve been using it to make people think I am somewhere I am not. So those times when I was reported to be in the library, I was actually in my room, or in the terrace gardens. Things like that.”

     A slightly proud smile grows on Loki’s real face. It _has_ been a lot of work, and it _is_ impressive. “Mother has been my primary beta-tester in most of this; her illusions are far more powerful than mine. She hasn’t caught the not-ness that you did, though. I’m not quite sure how to fix that yet, but I shall. I have been thinking on how to give it weight, and not just have it be a construct of light and seidr. It’s fortunate that I don’t yet, though, for giving the illusion of a depression in fabric when it sits is hard enough. Here, let me show you.” He rises out of the soft arm-chair he’s been slumped in, and with a few gestures, the illusion of Loki walks forward and sprawls into the seat, lounging just the way the younger prince often does. It passes through Sif’s legs on its journey, grinning at her all the while, and Loki frowns thoughtfully at the sight.

     “Sorry about that,” he says absently. “I haven’t laid the strings for spatial recognition this time, it’s only moving via the most direct route. Most of the inner workings I’ve left out for demonstration. In answer to your other question, it's made of 784 lesser strings, but many are simple spells, and there are a good portion that only trigger when someone catches sight of it. Though I’m not entirely sure why it keeps smiling when I didn’t bother to thread most of the behaviors. Those are the ones that take up the most seidr.” Loki is _tired_ , growing moreso by the second. But Sif wants to see, and the last thing the young prince will ever do is admit defeat in front of her, especially to draining his stores.

     Sif shrugs, unconcerned at further contact with the spectre, watching it swing around in a perfect mimic of Loki’s dramatic way before flopping into the chair. She wriggles her toes in her boots at the tingle that remains of the contact, unable to help a small smile back at Loki’s double for there is something cheeky and pleasingly direct in it’s gaze.

     Though it phases through her legs, it rests upon the fabric of the armrest and seat with the perfect illusion of weight and Sif shakes her head in surprise and amazement. She slips off the edge of the desk again, stepping over to examine the interaction with the chair more closely. Not a fold seems off and the plush of the chair even seems to sag, a further illusion projected from the existing one.

     “Do you call him anything particular,” she asks, looking up again into the construct’s eyes, feeling something flutter in the pit of her chest when he smiles all the wider. “Or is it considered bad luck to ‘name’ such a project?”

     “Name it? Why would I _name_ it? It’s an illusion!” Loki replies, slightly put out. Sif never smiles at him like that, until she does, but then it’s at his double. There is something incredibly off-putting about that. He finds himself almost jealous of his own creation, one that shares his face no less! It is utterly ridiculous and Loki firmly blames his tired state for it. “Do not tell me you want to do so now. It’s a magical construct, Sif, not a _pet_.” He finds himself wondering again at exactly what is making his doppelganger’s expressions change, for Loki is fairly certain he has not run the spells that mimic his personality on top of it all.

     “If you keep smiling at it so, Sif, I shall think you are more fond of a construction of light and magic than anything else,” he grumbles. The ‘me’ was changed as he spoke, but Loki can feel the word sitting on the back of his tongue like a weight.

     “I do not see _you_ smile in that way so often, you know. Is it so strange that I would peer closer at a novelty?” Sif asks with a laugh, turning away from the construct with just a shade of reluctance that she does her best to squash. It is only a smile, a false one, at that...

     “Do skalds not title their works? Do warriors not name their treasured tools of fortune?” she points out. “Do not sound so put out. It is foolishness to think the creation would surpass it’s master so easily.”

     “I smile,” Loki sulks. “And I am _not_ put out. I am proud that I have managed to create it to fool even my brother in only a year.” Sif turns away from the illusion, and Loki feels better, even if she is chiding him. “No, I think I shall not. It seems to be developing autonomy enough as it is, I do not think giving it the power of a name is a good idea. Why, did you want to give it one?” The construct turns and blinks at Loki, as though it knows what it’s doing. Loki scowls at it; peculiar that it seems to hold onto personality so tightly. Loki focuses his magics intently, and the illusion’s face slips into something acceptably neutral. The prince breathes a slight sigh of relief. He is tired, very tired, and it is getting harder and harder to keep the clone up and running…

     “It is a fairly good likeness, though,” he says, pushing himself off the table edge to go stand next to Sif. “And the illusion repairs itself when something passes through it. I cannot wait until it is done…”

     "Well, wait you shall have to." Sif says with a fond sort of smile, nudging Loki gently with one elbow as he comes to her side. He moves sluggishly and Sif cannot help but notice, leaning over to peer into his face. To make such a complex thing work for so long must be tiring and she can see the stress of it faintly lining his eyes.

     "I am sure in another year it will be twice as excellent, but the realms were not made in a day."

     Loki nudges her back, refusing to acknowledge that her pleased smile makes something within him squeeze. Sif is meant for Thor, even at this tender age he knows this. “They would have been if _I_ were in charge,” the dark prince replies loftily. “And since when did the warrior maid _Sif_ decide to be patient? Are you not the same girl that made me sneak her out to the training yards at night so she could get extra practice to advance faster than her peers?”

     "Patience is occasionally worth its reward." Sif drawls as his elbow taps into her side. "As is _dedication,_ which is what my extra practice is, thank you. This is quite the same in terms of extra effort." She nods to the illusion.

     “I shall remind you of those words in the future, when you want my magic to expedite something for you…” Loki replies, arching an eyebrow at her.

     As she returns his gaze Loki's lashes flutter just once and the spectre flickers about the edges.

     "Are you tired?" Sif ventures, a brow raised. "Do not hold it up on my account if so."

     He takes a deep breath and fights the urge to sit down. He has not cast such complex magic for such a long period of time before; not without a break at least.

     “Are you _worried_ about me, Sif? I only ever do things for my own account. I thought everyone knew this.” There’s a slightly bitter tinge to his words, for he has overheard the teasings of the Three many times.

     “Fear not, my Lady, I am ever able to take care of myself. Besides, if I cannot master this one, how am I to conjure many?”

     Sif narrows her eyes upon him, flushing faintly at his accusation of concern but not refuting it for he looks a shade paler than usual. She clears her throat somewhat indignantly, trying for a sense of authority.

     “What did you say to me once? ‘Hurting yourself is doing your enemy’s work for them?’ Do not make yourself weary for show, Loki.”

     “Are you my enemy then?” he goads, for it is their way. He never can resist needling her. “It’s awfully nice to hear these things outright, I must say.”

     “Why would I be your enemy?” Sif snorts, pushing him again with her elbow. “I seek only to spare you the embarrassment of not knowing your limitations. It shall not impress anyone when you collapse for exhaustion, Odinson.”

     “As _if_   I have ever impressed you,” he harrumphs, more of that bitterness slipping through. “You are only impressed by those who can bench-press several hundred times their own weight and flip you into the dirt with a sword at your neck.”

     “Who told you _that_ foolishness?” Sif asks, making a sour face at him. “I am not impressed by feats from others that I myself can accomplish.”

     "Why should I be told when I can observe it for myself?" Loki replies with his usual lofty arrogance. The clone blinks up at them, but it smiles faintly at Sif. "Oh, do not give us that look," he tells the illusion irritably. It seems to have the unfortunate side effect of reflecting a mood a bit more honest than Loki likes to express.

     Sif smirks, then laughs aloud. “I’ve changed my mind, I think I shall name it. Brasstongue, for he is a poor liar despite your image.” She is not sure whether Loki’s second-hand smile or his first-hand irritation delights her more.

     "You shall call it no such thing!" Loki splutters, stiffening in indignation. "And when it is complete not even _you_ with your desire to study my face shall be able to tell the difference!" The illusion seems fairly unimpressed with the moniker as well, raising its eyebrow at the blonde warrior in a very Loki manner.

     "It's first words to you when I get it to speak shall be to call you a horse," he declares. "And... I..." Loki sways suddenly on his feet, feeling dizzy.

     Sif laughs more at his protest, amusement that she has riled his temper bubbling up and past her lips, but it fades as quickly as it came when Loki weaves back a step. Without thought Sif reaches out, grasping his arm to steady him as he tips, her amusement eclipsed by concern. He is even more stubborn than she knows! To stand until he staggers...

     “Loki, sit before you fall.” she urges, squeezing his bicep, and though she tries for a tone that brooks no argument worry spills out in it’s place.

     “I’m _fine_ ,” he growls with the impatient arrogance of a teen desperately trying to hide his weakness. “Let go, I’m _fine_ , Sif.” It’s a lie, a blatant lie, he can feel how utterly not-fine he really is. He’s wasted too much magic, his stores are running on the barest wisps of seidr, all because he wanted to show off for a pretty girl… Foolish.

     “If I let you go you will fall on your face!” She protests, colour rising in her cheeks even as it drains from Loki’s. His protest is in word only, she feels no strength in the body under her hand, his weight is canting into her grip even as he tells her to release him. His eyes, hazy, flicker open shut open, the construct flickers and fuzzes in her peripheral vision. Sif reaches for his other arm as he begins to pitch backward toward the waiting edge of the desk.

     “Loki!” she snaps, gripping hard and tugging him back toward her.

     Loki feels his vision swim, the room spins, and the construct vanishes in a cloud of yellow and green sparks. He doesn’t have enough magic right now to even light a candle, and he’s trying so very very hard to stay awake… Passing out in front of Sif would just be the worst in every conceivable manner… He can feel the roaring blackness creeping into his vision, the familiar and sure signs that he’s pushed himself too far, stretched his limits far beyond his control and that he’s about to embarrass himself.

     “I…” he manages before it’s too much, and he tumbles forward onto her shoulder, out cold.

     It is no surprise that he collapses and yet Sif makes a startled noise as he sways into her grasp. She catches him (for how can she simply let him fall face-first into the floor?) but no tussle they have had in the yards has felt so intimate as holding his weight upright against her body.

     Sif is _glad_ that he is unconscious for her face is flushed hot and her breath short in a way he would surely notice with eyes open or closed. Instead his head lolls into the crook of her neck and Sif staggers back a step under his weight, the warmth of Loki’s shallow breath beneath her ear making her whole body bristle with a confusing heat and some low tremor of panic at his state. It is completely inappropriate to find anything ‘nice’ in one’s friend buckling from exhaustion but Loki has stubbornly done so _onto her_ , which leaves Sif quite stuck with all that such close contact entails - his cooler cheek against her jaw, the smell of his hair and clothes filling her lungs...

     “You _stupid_ ass,” she hisses, for all she knows of dealing with so unsettling a feeling is to be furious at it, her fingers clutching in Loki’s clothes as she takes a better hold of his slumped body and hefts him up. His feet drag upon the rug but she carries him the few feet to the chair with little overall effort despite an awkward grip. She eases him down into the seat and off of her shoulder, feeling a guilty throb of reluctance beneath her ribs as she does.

     He doesn’t stir, head rolling aside the moment that Sif’s hand is no longer beneath it, and she huffs as she straightens up, trying to banish the tremor from her hands as she looks about the study for anything that may help her wake him. For a moment she contemplates pouring the glass of water on the desk over his face but decides quickly that such a thing is far too messy an option to be used first. Instead she plucks a blank sheet of parchment from the surface and creases it a few hasty times for reinforcement, and settles on the arm of the chair where it is easier to force some cool air over his face.

     Sif has done this a time or two over a fellow courtier who had arrived with her garments laced too firmly or a fellow warrior overheated under their helm, but it is strange and irritating to have to do so for Loki, most especially because she warned him to sit! That he did not listen galls her more than the inconvenience, really…

     Loki feels rather like he’s been hit with Mjolnir, and he groans slightly as consciousness returns. He can’t have been out for more than a few minutes, he never is during these spells. Stupid, stupid to let his magic drain so much so quickly. Sif’s face is close, too close. He takes a deep breath in as his vision clears. She’s fanning him, and he can feel himself flushing with embarrassment. She’s too _close_. And, he’s irritated to notice, she smells good. Something earthy and warm, like cinnamon on his tongue.

     “...Don’t even say it,” he mutters hoarsely, attempting to sit up.

     Sif stops fanning and plants her hand on his chest, pushing him back down, irritation creasing her face. “Stay sitting you foolish creature,” she snaps. “If you had sat when I told you in the first place you would not have collapsed at all. Do you let every word I say roll in one of your ears and out the other?!” She feels angrier than she probably ought to be but sees little reason not to take her temper out upon him for his bullheadedness.

     He looks up at her sourly and manages to prop himself up on the arm of the chair just to irritate her. The blonde warrior hasn’t removed her hand yet, and he glares at that, too. “I told you not to say it,” he sulks. “And when you say something of merit, I shall be sure to take note.” Stars and branches, he is an utter fool, and were it not for the fact that his magical stores are utterly exhausted, he’d fade into the shadows and make his escape from Sif’s warm hand against his chest. She’s _still_ too close.

     She ought to stop touching him but does not want to step away until she is sure his return to wakefulness is going to stick and so Sif eases away only enough to give him a shade of room - fingers still upon his chest as she balances at the edge of the chair seat.

     “You did not listen to me so I will not listen to you in return.” She quips in reply, beginning to skim him over for any other signs of unwellness. “Are you alright?”

     Sif is doing that thing again, the thing she has taken to doing within the past few years, where she lingers within his personal space and does not seem to care that it is _infuriating_. “I told you before, I’m _fine_ ,” he grouses, feeling his treacherous heart pound as she gently touches him to ensure he is not lying. “You have a terrible track record of listening to any who tell you things you do not wish to hear; I do not know why I thought this would go otherwise.”

     “Why would I not wish to hear that you are ‘fine’?” she fires back, indignant. “Do not send a fake self to class, trickster pest, and then act as if I ought trust your word the first time.” Satisfied that there are no hidden wounds he has succumbed to Sif finally pulls her hands back, crossing her arms to match the surely scolding look on her face. “You are welcome for your trip to the couch.”

     “Well you certainly couldn’t let me stay passed out in your arms,” Loki replies with a smirk. His best defense right now is to irritate her enough to get her to leave. The longer Sif stays in his presence, the more of a fool he shall make of himself. “Though I appreciate you set me upon the couch rather than let me drop straight to the floor, I suppose. I shall take your touching concern to heart.” He watches her for a moment, hoping his barbs hit home. Sif seems to always be touchy when it comes to romantic emotions.

     "See that you don't!" Sif snaps, the heat of anger flooding through her bones, horrified embarrassment clawing in her belly. "I did not catch you by choice, you _fell_ upon me! Like I was a piece of furniture in your way! That I did not drop you was no-… I di-… there was no concern in it beyond my hide if I was last seen at your rooms immediately before you arrived to the healing hall with a concussion!"

     Loki's smirk grows at her angry spluttering protests. It is good to have her on the defensive for a change. "Of _course_ ," he drawls, condescension dripping from his houndteeth. "You are only here alone in my study and the only one who noticed I was not myself at lessons. I am certain anyone who asks shall think you utterly inconvenience-”

     He does not finish the last word for Sif’s fist has connected squarely with his face, slender knuckles cracking against his temple, nose broken and eye blackened with one carefully placed blow. Loki’s head snaps back and Sif strikes him again for good measure as she rises, the second punch making a satisfying hollow sound as it meets his jaw and rocks him almost out of his seat.

     "You are a foolish ungrateful ass, Odinson!" She snarls, storming past the desk and snatching up her bookbag without stopping, her anger trailing in her wake like a visible cloud. She closes the door behind her with enough force to leave the frame shivering.

     Loki groans as she storms out, tilting his head back to staunch the flow of blood. Dribbling all over his papers would be terribly inconvenient. Sif is beautiful when she is angry, and this was _exactly_ what he wanted.

     Only... it’s not. He feels like the fool she called him, feels the bitterness of late creeping back in, resentment and anger and embarrassment pooling in his stomach.

     “And ever shall I fall…” he mumbles to himself, closing his eyes with a sigh.

 

* * *

Alternate titles considered: 

  * Loki, No
  * I Was A Teenage Aesir
  * Hormones, Emotional Constipation, & You!
  * Feelings Are Hard; Let's Fight
  * Loki NO.



 


End file.
